


Breathless

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: Thorinduil - from Tumblr with love [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bottom Thorin, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, but it's consensual, may seem like dub-con, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4397000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is composed and coldly distant. Thorin is bound and at his mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from tumblr prompt fill for staubengel <3

Thorin stares as the crystal clasp comes undone and the silver robes fall to the ground. The Elvenking’s body is a vision of absolute perfection in the dim lights of the throne room, flawless and smooth as Thranduil stands before him in shameless nakedness. Thorin’s own halfway-bared body is naught but a picture of grotesque in comparison; yet it is Thorin a prisoner who is being forced into a position he never wanted, into a situation with no escape: it is Thorin who is soon to be debauched. His wrists are bound tightly and secured behind his back, but that is less scary than the first stirrings of arousal in his loins. He cannot, wills himself not to avert the Elvenking’s eyes that hold his gaze and then meaningfully take inventory of Thorin’s taut muscle and bulky form. He will not be humiliated by way of being assessed like a steed before a purchase is made. It has been the Elvenking himself who demanded of Thorin to surrender himself to physical intimacy; Thorin refuses to admit shame in the affair that he had no choice but to agree to.

Still he flushes under the lustful gaze he is not used to be on the receiving end of, or not at least to the intensity of it. Thranduil offers a smirk in response and then approaches, bold and unflinchingly sure of his step even in the vulnerability of bareness. He stands much taller in front of Thorin’s kneeling form and Thorin’s eyes are immediately drawn to the centre point of his nudity, to the length of it as pale as the rest of the Elvenking’s body. He knows without ever hearing the unsaid command what is expected of him and so he leans in as far as his uncomfortable position will allow and parts his lips to offer an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of the Elvenking’s desire. The Elvenking, however, is impatient in this, ill-tempered, and so he grabs Thorin by a fistful of hair and pulls him forward still. Aware how little control he is being left on the matter, that he will not be allowed to employ his own expertise on the activity, Thorin concedes and allows his jaw to go slack, allows his mouth to open wider to accommodate the length that slips in past his lips. He does not expect the Elvenking to start undulating his hips at once and so he near chokes when the tip suddenly pushes against the back of his throat. His eyes water and his eyelids slide closed; stinging tears spill briefly and disappear into his beard as he forces himself to breath through his nose and not to struggle against the Elvenking’s unrelenting, unforgiving grip on his hair. There is no escape.

Eventually he fights down the gag reflex and ultimately makes this easier on himself; for a few confusing, frantic moments, the Elvenking seems content with his rough fucking of Thorin’s mouth - although difficult it is to tell for he makes no sounds to indicate if the activity is bringing him pleasure. Thorin thinks naught of this, just as he tries to think naught of the want burning in his own nether regions that grows in intensity as he is being forced to swallow the Elvenking’s length time and again; the humiliation of it would be less severe, he thinks desperately, were his body not to betray him like this. He cannot suppress the influx of desire that comes from the powerful grip on his hair, from the helplessness against the act committed on him; as the Elvenking enjoys his mouth, in much the same extent does Thorin enjoy the treatment he is being subjected to.

It ends without warning, however, as the Elvenking pulls Thorin’s head away roughly and looks down upon him with a smirk on his face that wears mockery like a mask or like second skin. Thorin tries not to cough, but fails when the soreness of his throat becomes too uncomfortable. The Elvenking actually laughs at that: a short sound devoid of mirth or warmth leaves his lips as he still regards Thorin with a derisive kind of contempt.

‘I find I already grow bored of you,’ he speaks softly, but loud enough to be heard in the vastness of the throne room. He picks up his robes from the ground in a graceful movement and dons them without as much as another glance at Thorin’s kneeling form. He returns to his throne.

‘Come here,’ he demands, addressing Thorin from the seat on the pedestal. When Thorin attempts to scramble clumsily to his feet, the king of the Elves shakes his head. ‘On your knees,’ he explains. 'Crawl if you must.’

Thorin refuses to crawl and instead makes for the elevated throne in a rather awkward fashion. The Elvenking continues to not look at him and appear disinterested; it stings Thorin’s pride: he was not the one who instigated this, he was not the one who first demanded retribution in the form of satisfied lust, yet the humiliation and shame are his and his alone. The stone steps to the throne platform dig painfully into flesh and bone as Thorin climbs them carefully, bent forwards in what must look like a truly bizarre pose so that he doesn’t accidentally lose balance and fall onto his back in a flailing mess. Yet when he reaches the top and scuttles close to the Elvenking’s feet, a forceful kick to his chest sends him down in a way most painful and disgraceful: he tumbles down the stairs and lands on his back to the cold stone floor, bound arms uncomfortably squished beneath his own weight.

'What,’ Thorin growls, letting his anger get the better of him; he scowls, sends a glare at the Elf, mutters his hatred in low Khuzdul – and simply continues to lay there.

'Get up,’ the Elvenking snaps, almost sounding impatient, almost betraying emotion which he hides behind a frown; then it’s gone and a bored quality laces his voice when he says, 'Come here.’

In an inelegant flurry of straining muscle, Thorin gets back to his knees; it takes him longer than it should because his movement is limited and his spine throbbing painfully from the fall. Eventually, however, he crawls back up the stairs and to the Elvenking’s throne. One booted foot slides against his chest in a mocking, rough kind of caress, brushes unpleasantly against a nipple, makes Thorin draw a gasping breath; it wanders up to his chin and forces his head up so that he looks the Elvenking in the face.

'You will pleasure me with your mouth,’ the Elvenking commands. Thorin groans and tries to avert his eyes, the blank expression on that beautiful, ageless face that makes him want it all and none of it – but he cannot: a hand much stronger than it appears to be grasps at his hair and holds him in place.

'You will do it,’ the Elvenking reinforces coolly, 'and you will want to be thorough in making me slick and wet, because later I will  _fuck you_ ,’ he says and the words sound dirty and hot in his breathy whisper. Thorin does not quite manage to suppress the involuntary shudder that shakes his form.

'Do it,’ the Elf commands and pulls on his hair with a force that makes it painful. Thorin leans forward, takes the whole length of him with his mouth, swallows it as though he were hungry for it, as though he loved it – maybe he does, maybe he is a whore the Elvenking accuses him of being in a voice sultry and hotter, perhaps, than he intends it to be. Oh, but the taste of him on Thorin’s tongue is rich and full, not pleasant, but not altogether unpleasant either – bittersweet, foreign, unlike anything Thorin has tasted before this. _Addictive_ , a part of his brain whispers,  _I want to get addicted –_ but he dismisses it, squeezes his eyes shut, attempts to focus all of his attention on the length of the Elvenking’s desire and fails.

Already he dreads what he has been warned is to come, he dreads the way he will be breached, and so his technique is sloppy and his teeth scrapes against the crown in a way he knows must be unpleasant, for the Elvenking hisses and tightens his hand in Thorin’s hair as punishment, causing him pain that goes straight to his groin and makes him go harder still. There is an indecent sort of  humiliation in being so aroused from what is intended to punish him and Thorin hopes against hope that the Elvenking does not notice – but of course he does, and he chuckles and holds Thorin’s head in place, forces his way further into his willing mouth, chokes him: and then he retreats, pushes Thorin away, smirks in self-satisfaction.

'Climb into my lap,’ he demands. Oh, but Thorin hates that arrogant face and that confident curve of lips, the same lips he secretly covets, the same lips he wishes would cover his but knows he cannot demand because this has nothing to do with whether or not the Elvenking desires him – because the degradation and humiliation of the haughty Mountain King is what the Elf finds the appeal in.

Thorin growls and obeys, gets clumsily up to his feet, awkward when he does climb into the Elvenking’s lap. Immediately, hands grab his hips and hold him steady, force him to move until his knees are spread on either side of the Elvenking’s thighs. He feels the tip of the Elvenking’s desire brush against his clothed behind and he groans: in anticipation, in contempt, he’s not sure anymore. Inexplicably, lips that are cool to the touch seek out his own and he is being kissed, his mouth is being plundered roughly with a tongue that forces its way inside and takes whatever it wants. He cannot breathe and so he tries to pull back, but a hand is quick to move from his hip and hold his chin; Thorin is once again helpless against the assault, and he is reminded through this that there is naught of his pleasure to be sought in the touch of the Elvenking.

His mouth is released and he gasps, breathes in too suddenly and almost chokes, but the Elvenking does not give him time to recuperate as he already dips his head to lick a trail over the side of Thorin’s neck and down to his collarbone, where he plants a surprisingly gentle kiss before he bites, hard enough to possibly leave a bruise. The treatment leaves Thorin panting and he  _wants_ , yet he doesn’t know  _what_  he wants. No matter. It’s not about what he wants.

Sometime between the initial contact of their lips and now, the Elvenking must have unlaced the ties on Thorin’s breeches, because the garment is easily pulled down past his hips. The position makes it impossible to fully remove it, but the Elvenking does not appear disgruntled by it; indeed, his eyes roam over Thorin’s almost-naked form with satisfaction. His hands firmly grasp Thorin’s behind, squeeze to the point of causing pain. Thorin tries not to make a sound, but something akin to a whimper leaves his lips and the Elvenking smirks in response. There is a dangerous glint in the Elvenking’s eyes before he spreads Thorin’s buttocks and then pushes him down so that the tip of his length brushes against Thorin’s hole. It’s not a welcome touch; Thorin squirms, uncomfortable and fearful, because he is not ready and he knows it will hurt if the Elvenking takes him like this. The words from before play back in his mind; and he knows the Elvenking will not prepare him, will not do anything to make it easier for him.

When just the tip breaches him, he bites down on a sob, because no matter what, he won’t show the Elvenking how weak he is, how easy to break with pain. And oh, how close to breaking he is, how little of his strong will is left within his body when he is being played so roughly: he is left a shivering wreck like a young virgin under the unrelenting caresses that seem more like punishment. He will endure, he repeats to himself in his mind, before suddenly he is being pushed down further and forced to fully take the Elvenking’s length inside of him. He screams; the pain is excruciating and exquisite, and he feels his own hardness throbbing between his legs, shamelessly demanding attention.

'P-please,’ he whimpers breathlessly. He dares not move, he dares not make too sudden an intake of air as to not cause himself more pain; what he begs for, he is unsure, but he feels finally an effect on the Elvenking: the slight trembling of his long limbs, the tightening of the grip on his hips that will leave a bruise.

'Please,’ he repeats, and this time it is more of a moan. The Elvenking exhales loudly and rotates his hips, sliding out then in then out and in; and while it hurts, it also sets something off inside Thorin and he leans forward and up to capture the Elvenking’s lips in a fierce battle of tongues and teeth. The initial pain soon becomes insignificant when Thorin sinks down further on the Elvenking’s length and it brushes against the spot inside of him that makes him feverish; now he impales himself on the Elvenking, angling for that spot each time, and they both groan at the intensity, at the pace that grows insane, at the heat where their bodies touch. Thorin whimpers, bites on the Elvenking’s lower lip, and it is not enough yet, not enough, he needs more – long fingers wrap around his own length, but they do not move, do not stroke, no, they just hold, and Thorin  _wants_ , he  _needs this so much_ , and then the Elvenking says,

'Come for me,’ but he cannot, this is still not enough, and the Elvenking appears to understand because then he grabs a handful of Thorin’s thick hair and  _pulls_ and  _yes_  and Thorin is coming with a scream that resounds mightily in the empty throne chamber.

A few more jerks of his hips and the Elvenking joins him at the peak of his passion with wide eyes and biting his lips, and he is so absolutely  _beautiful_  and Thorin loves him so  _much_!…

 

'Oh, Thorin,’ he whispers once it is over, and he sets out to untie Thorin’s wrists gently. 'This was… Oh, this was,’ he shakes his head as though he has no words.

Thorin smiles. 'Yes,’ he agrees. 'I told you it would be good,’ he adds impishly, but he immediately winces when circulation is restored to his poor abused wrists.

'You are unhurt?’ Thranduil asks worriedly. He traces the trail of rope burns on Thorin’s skin with his lips in a line of gentle kisses.

Thorin wastes no time embracing his lover, who wraps his own arms around his form. 'I prepared myself well before,’ he promises.

He is so tired now! He relaxes and yawns, very much willing to ignore that they are both sticky and covered in bodily fluids for the time being. It matters not. He is warm, happy and satisfied in the arms of his beloved.

'One thing though,’ he remembers suddenly and looks up at the Elvenking. 'That damn kick, that hurt. You never warned me.  _What in Durin’s name was that supposed to be?_ ’ He demands, frowning.

Thranduil looks away in what appears to be embarrassment. 'I swear it was an accident,’ he says quickly – too quickly, and with his arms still around Thorin, he is left with no free limbs to use to hide his amusement.

Thorin leaves a bite mark the size of a plum on his neck right above the collarbone where it could not be easily hidden in retaliation.


End file.
